A Study in Writing
by ijustwanttobeabritishman
Summary: A collection of one-shots and drabbles I have lying around. I'm not going to go in any order, or put them in any one universe; it's just going to be one-shot after drabble after drabble. Warnings for excessive unresolved cliffhangers.
1. Chapter 1

**[AN] This was written for a prompt in my Language Arts class with the girl who sits at my table. She's awesome. The prompt was boring, so we changed it to Sherlock. You had to write for an amount of time, then pass it to your partner, and keep switching off. Her writing is in bold, and mine is in regular font. **

o0o0o

**A ragged dog sniffed at the remains of a sandwich, the drizzle soaking on its grey coat. At the end of the alley, two men were huddled on a fire escape, sharing a cup of coffee. **

"**Time to find out, don't you think?" asked John.**

"**Let's do it," Sherlock replied. **

**John crumpled the coffee cup, and together they crawled through the open window behind them.**

**The small, crumbling apartment was dark and cold; nothing would lead any passerby to think that this small, unassuming room was one of the most important rooms in all of Britain.**

**The two men. The world's only Consulting Detective and his accomplice, war veteran John Watson, stared around in apprehension. The power in this room, the danger, was unbelievable. And although it had all the resemblance of a simple abandoned flat**_,_ there were dangers there not even they knew existed.

"You're sure Moriarty's here, somewhere?" John asked after a moment, glancing around at the decaying walls with a look of slight disgust.

"Positive," Sherlock breathed, slowly slipping his scarf off of his neck, twisting it between his long bony fingers. John thought for a moment about what else those fingers could- NO. They were here _strictly _on a case. Sherlock looked over and raised an eyebrow, as if he knew exactly what the other man had been thinking.

"Shut up," John mumbled. Sherlock just smirked.

"He-loooo, dearies!" came a sing-song voice from the other end of the hallway. John froze. "I'm _so _pleased to see you again! Such a shame you can't say the same, hm?"

"_Moriarty,"_ Sherlock hissed.

There was a faint '_whoosh'_ of a dart being blown, and John collapsed on the floor, screaming.

Moriarty looked up from John to Sherlock, fighting a smile.

"Oops."

**Sherlock glanced down at John, who was writhing on the floor, with barely a turn of his head. His mind was racing- he had prepared for almost any eventuality, knowing what Moriarty was capable of.**

**Moriarty clasped his hands together, and with a curiously benign expression said, "Well, isn't this nice?"**


	2. Chapter 2

**[AN] This one is another class writing prompt thing, but this is one that _I _started. Once again, her writing is in bold (I think it's actually better than mine, ha!) and mine is in regular font.**

o0o0o

Thomas checked his watch again and grimaced- _'late again', _he thought. He'd been late for work twice already this week. His boss would not be happy.

"Late for work again?" a low voice behind him asked. Thomas turned and saw a tall, raven-haired man wearing a long black trench coat and a navy scarf, sitting on a bus stop bench. "I wouldn't go that way if I were you. There's a man on the other side of that wall waiting to kill you."

Thomas blinked. "What?"

"Obviously he's looking for your sister, but she's not here, due to the death of a relative, possibly an aunt. You stayed behind to look after the flat and her-" the man paused for a moment, glancing over Thomas's legs- "three dogs."

"How- how could you possibly know that?" Thomas gawked.

"Obvious. Unfortunately, I haven't got much time to explain. Follow me." The man grabbed Thomas's arm and dragged him around the wall.

Another man stood there, short with sandy hair.

"I've got him, John! Let's go!"

"Right," the man called John bit, then followed. A sleek black car pulled up, and the first man shoved Thomas in.

"221B, please. Baker street." The cabbie nodded. Both of the men clambered in after Thomas.

"Sherlock Holmes." The man extended a long, bony hand for Thomas to shake.

**As the city lights flashed by, throwing into sharp relief the prominent cheekbones, making his face oddly shadowed and weird.**

**Thomas bit his lip, questions running through his mind, solidifying and evaporating like water. One escaped to his tongue.**

"**Where are we going, Mr…"**

"**Holmes," said the second man, John. "Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting prat. And you and I have the luck to be sharing a cab with him."**

"**Not fortune John- out of all the people in the word we can narrow that down to residents and tourists in Britain, down to London, and then to those with the right personality types- like John- or with connections to someone with the right personality, narrow that down to those."**

Thomas blinked.

"So there you have it," Sherlock Holmes said smugly. "Not luck."

_BANG._

"John! John, he's catching up with us! Oh, this is _brilliant!_" Holmes rolled down the window of the moving cab and pulled out a gun.

"Brilliant- oof! Brilliant _how?_" John pulled a Browning L9A1 out of his horridly colored jumper and began shooting.

"You figure it out!" shouted Holmes, grinning.

Thomas remained silent.

"Please excuse my brother," came a voice from the front. "He can get a bit… enthusiastic."

"Uh…" Thomas blinked at the man sitting opposite the driver. "…thanks."

**[AN] She actually meant to write more on the thing, but ran out of time, so it ends weirdly. I'm sure it would have made more sense if we'd been given five more minutes. Oh well, it's still fine.**


	3. Chapter 3

"Hurry John, we'll lose him!" Sherlock's voice rang through the church, echoing off the walls. John sped up his pace, trying desperately to keep up with the detective.

"Sherlock, slow down, I'm falling beh-oof!" John's plea was cut off at he tripped over one of the tiles lining the floor of the church. He faintly heard Sherlock yelling something but ignored it, trying to stand.

A hand closed tightly around his mouth.

0o0o0

Sherlock stood on the balcony of the church, eyes sweeping over the tiled floors and the wooden pews. _Bzzzzz._ He reached a hand into his pocket and pulled out the vibrating phone.

"No, Lestrade, I don't know where he is. No. _Yes._ I told you, Inspector. What? _No_. No- listen to me. John's probably fine. We just have to-" _BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA._

A loud blast of what was probably a low E rang through the church.

"_What was that?"_

"Nothing, just the organ-"

_BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAA_

"_Sherlock-"_

"You know where to find me." Sherlock ended the call and tore up the stairs, searching for the source of the noise.

0o0o0

John woke up in a very small, very cramped space. He tried to lift his arm up to rub his head, but found it was pressed too tightly against his back. He looked up.

He seemed to be in a very long vertical shaft of some sort. Wait, was he still in the church? How could he be-

_BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAA_

John paled as he realized. He was inside one of the organ pipes.


	4. Chapter 4

WHEN SHERLOCK MEETS SHERLOCK

"Hello."

"Hello."

"…"

"…"

"…"

"…"

"…"

"…"

"…"

"Oh, no thank you. I'm quite full."

"…"

"…"

"…"

"…"

"Yes, John's doing quite well, of course."

"…"

"…"

"…"

"…"

"You should get going, you'll be late for it."


	5. Chapter 5

Caught Red Handed

"Lestrade, please. This woman is obviously not the thief, just look at her fingernails!"

"Her fingernails?"

"Yes! They're completely clean!"

"So?"

"_So, _we know the necklace was buried under two feet of dirt. If she was the thief, she'd have dirt under her nails."

Lestrade was silent.

"I've got to get back to the flat; I promised John I'd get milk." With a swish of his coat and the _FWOOMPH _of an umbrella, Sherlock ducked under the police tape and hailed a taxi.

00000

How many blasted types of milk _were _there, damn it? Which kind of milk was he supposed to get? Did John drink skim? 2 percent? Whole? Maybe he drunk half and half.

He chose 2 percent, thinking it to be the least likely to imply something, then stopped by aisle seventeen to pick up a can of beans.

The checker was a young lady (In her early twenties, was dating three men and one woman currently, had a bad relationship with her mother, but a good relationship with her father, and she had a little sister who missed her) who dimpled when she asked him if he wanted paper or plastic. Sherlock replied with neither, grabbing the milk and beans and leaving quickly. The rain was getting fiercer and it looked like thunder, so he decided to walk home instead of taking a cab.

Luckily, he'd remembered his key. Holding the milk under one arm and tucking the beans under his chin, he fiddled with the key and the lock until they came loose and the door slid open.

As he was walking up the stairs, Sherlock thought he heard something. Someone… singing?

"_Ca-li-fo-rnia girls, we're so excitable!" _came John's voice from upstairs.

Sherlock blinked. What the hell was John doing? He walked upstairs and opened the door quietly. John was washing dishes in the sink (their dishwasher was broken after Sherlock had tried to run it using horse mucus for soap), crooning along to the radio, which was playing… something, though it certainly wasn't music.

"_Daisy Dukes, Bikinis on top! Sun-Kissed-Skin- so hot, we'll melt your popsicle! Ooh-oh-uh, Oh-uh, Oh, ooh-oh-ooh-oh-oo-oh!" _John was swaying his his to the beat of the song energetically.

What the hell kind of a song was that?

"_You could travel the wo-orld, but nothing comes close to the Golden Co-o-ost! Once you party with us, you'll be fallin' in lov-_ shit!" John swore as one of the plates dropped to the floor, shattering. He sighed, reaching up to the radio and shutting it off, then bent down and began picking up the broken plate.

Sherlock cleared his throat.

John spun around, bright red, the pieces of plate he'd picked up spinning out of his hands and onto the floor.

"Uh… hi," he said. "I… see you got milk."

**[A/N] Bahaha. John, you're so silly. Apologies on last chapter, I know it was kind of boring. So I updated with this :)**


	6. Chapter 6

**[A/N] I killed John on Omegle today. The other person was very traumatized. So I decided to do a short post-Reichenbach scene featuring John and the roof of St. Bart's. **

John rushed past Molly, ignoring her small cry of surprise as he accidentally knocked her with his shoulder. He reached the door leading to the stairs and wrenched it open. Thankfully, no one else was there. John tromped up the stairs, tears starting to form in his eyes. He hastily drew his arm across his face to wipe them away.

Finally, John reached the top. He pulled open the door and walked out onto the roof of St. Bart's.

The wind bit at his face, blowing his hair out of his eyes. The doctor looked around, remembering what had happened three months ago. Remembering everything that Sherlock had said to him, remembering everything he'd tried to get over Sherlock's death.

John never knew what true grief was. Yes, he'd felt pain and loss from the soldiers that had died alongside him in Afghanistan, but this was different. True grief was feeling something amazing and wonderful thrust into your life, then torn out of it again.

He couldn't take it anymore.

Sighing, John stepped up onto the ledge of the building, not daring to look down for fear he'd lose his nerve.

With one last thought of Sherlock- _"Want to see some more?"-_he shifted his weight forward and fell off the rooftop.

_FWUMPH._

John let out a cry of alarm as he landed in- a pile of mattresses? He tried and failed to sit up four times before managing to push himself off of the giant squishy pile.

Passerby were staring, obviously assuming it was some sort of stunt.

John looked around wildly, looking for some sort of an explanation as to why there was a giant-fucking-pile of mattresses in the middle of the sidewalk.

He turned around and came face to face with Sherlock Holmes.


	7. Chapter 7

**[A/N] I think Ionian Gray/Grey is going to be the go-to suspect that is never seen but always talked about. I've used him in at least three stories now. And I don't actually know John's birthday so... just assume it's this day. Haha. **

**Also, I am now doing requests for this fic. Or other fics. Just leave a review with your idea (or PM me).**

It was approximately three in the morning when Sherlock Holmes reached two conclusions. One, he needed to travel to Dublin the next morning if he wanted to have any chance of catching Ionian Gray. Two, John's birthday was that morning. Sherlock glanced at the clock and realized that John would probably be up in about four hours. He'd be gone before then. Well, he could at least leave a note, couldn't he?

Sherlock walked over to the kitchen, pulled out a few pieces of paper from the silverware drawer, and set them carefully down on the kitchen table, making sure they didn't soak up any of the rat blood he'd been incubating. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a pen, flicking it along the backside of his hand to make sure it still worked.

_Dear John, _he began. _I know you didn't think that I'd remember your birthday, but I did. I have been counting down the days this week. - _that was a lie, he'd been counting down from last month – _I am away in Dublin at the moment, so I can't celebrate with you. I'll get you a present, though. _

_It's funny, isn't it? I can't even remember my own birthday (let along Mycroft's or Mummy's), yet I can remember yours months- _he paused, then scribbled the last word out. –_weeks ahead. You're very important to me. I don't think I could go back to living alone again, if you left me. I do care for you, even if it seems like I don't. _

_I don't know how to describe how I feel; I've never felt this way before. Is it love? I don't know. All I know is that you're the most important person in my life and I would take a bullet for you if it meant you would be safe._

_Happy Birthday, John. I'll be back home in three days._

_Love,_

_Sherlock._

Sherlock let the _k_ flourish, swirling the pen across the bottom of the page. He read over his writing carefully, making sure nothing was spelled wrong, then folded it up into thirds and wrote _John H. Watson_ on the smooth section.

But… what if John didn't feel the same way? What if John just… wasn't interested? Would he find Sherlock's affections alarming? Would he be repulsed? Would he… move out?

Sherlock looked down at the letter in his hands. No. John couldn't read this. He clenched his fist, crumpling the paper into a deformed bow and tossed it in the waste bin.

Unfortunately, the paper didn't land in the waste bin. Sherlock didn't notice.

He took out another sheet of paper and began writing.

_John._

_I'm sorry I'm gone for your birthday. Currently in Dublin. Will return in a few days. Please try not to break anything in the meantime._

_Sherlock._

He glanced over it, nodded slightly, folded it up and wrote _John H. Watson_ on the end, then set it in the middle of the table, once again avoiding the rat's blood.

Then, with a swish of his coat, he was gone.

oOoOo

John woke up groggily to the sound of birds chirping. Sunlight was streaming through his window, and he held up a hand to stop the unwelcome rays from searing his eyes any further.

Grumbling, John heaved himself out of bed and slipped on his "lazy" clothes: A green bathrobe, light blue t-shirt, red baggy pants, and a pair of red slippers.

When he entered the kitchen, John saw a note on the kitchen table labeled _John H. Watson._ Curious, he unfolded it.

Oh. Sherlock wasn't here. That would explain the lack of violin playing. He sighed sadly, sinking into one of the chairs by the table and stretched an arm behind his head, groaning.

Wait a minute.

John looked across the room at the small trash bin he'd put in the kitchen a few weeks ago. Something was lying to the side of it. A note. That said _John H. Watson._

Frowning, he walked over, picked it up, then unfolded it.


	8. Chapter 8

"_John." John opens his eyes slowly, coming face to face with what must be an angel. The creature is standing in front of him, holding his face in its hands and smiling. There's something behind the smile, something John can't quite place, but he pushes the thought aside. The being is semi-translucent, glowing brightly. Its eyes shine a brilliant white, and John can tell the creature is looking at him, even though he can't prove it. "John," the creature says again, and John stares at it, expecting something to happen._

_The creature steps back, removing its hands from John's face, and a certain feeling of warmth that John hadn't noticed was there evaporates, leaving him colder and emptier than he'd been before. The creature's smile slips from its face, and it begins to walk backwards. _

_John looks around for the first time. They're standing on top of something, something tall. John isn't sure how he knows, but he's got a certain feeling. The creature raises an arm and John is suddenly on the ground looking up._

"_Goodbye, John," the creature says, and John can hear it perfectly, even though he's standing on the ground, meters from where the creature- __**Sherlock-**__ is standing, and he watches it, unable to move, as it takes a graceful leap off the building, hurtling towards what must be the ground._

"_**SHERLOCK!**__" John screams, rooted to the spot, trying desperately to move but he can't- he's stuck. He can't move._

_Sherlock hits the ground with a 'THUD'-_

John sits up sharply, panting hard. He can't move; he's paralyzed in a sitting position, staring forward at the empty kitchen.

It isn't until he feels the taste of salt in his mouth that he realizes there are tears running down his face, and it isn't until he reaches a hand up to wipe them away that he realizes he's shaking.


	9. Chapter 9

It's the little things. John's requests to hear Brahms's lullaby on the violin, promising he'll never ask for it again when they both know he will the next night. Feeding Sherlock strawberries when they go out to eat, ignoring the looks of the other people around them and having eyes only for Sherlock. Humming Brahms's lullaby when he was doing the dishes, the laundry, or any other busywork. It's the little things that made Sherlock Holmes realize he was in love.

Sherlock tells John to meet him in the café- Angelo's. It's the first place he realized he loved John Watson, the first place he confessed it, and the first place he realized he'd fallen out of love again. He figured it would only be fitting.

He sees John enter and they sit at their usual table. Sherlock wants to slap John when he smiles, to stand up and yell "I'M LEAVING YOU!" But he just pours more wine into John's glass.

When John starts crying harder that Sherlock's ever seen him cry, Sherlock realizes. John already knows. John's already figured out that Sherlock had grown tired, weary of him and more interested in the thrill of the chase. John already knew that Sherlock planned to leave him, to cut their connection and never look back.

Then John pulls out a packet of papers and hands it over. Sherlock is confused, but looks at the papers.

John has terminal Lukemia.

Instantly Sherlock's plans are pushed from his head, and he hears a mechanical voice, saying _You must rise to the occasion._

So he does. Sherlock spends the next month catering to John's every need. Playing lullabies at night, moving furniture. Sleeping next to him so their limbs brush against each other and their noses bump. He does anything and everything John asks; he's polite to Lestrade and Anderson and he makes tea. He goes shopping with John even though he abhors it and takes trips to cases they both know wouldn't even merit more than a 2.4. Sherlock makes John meals and eats when John tells him to, not uttering a word of resistance. Sherlock tries his hardest to act like the man he used to be, enraptured by John's movement and touch.

And by acting like a man in love, Sherlock becomes one again.

When John dies in his arms, halfway through humming Brahms's lullaby, Sherlock's world collapses. He falls into an emotional coma and never recovers.

His heart still lurches every time he hears Brahms.

**[A/N] Sorry, I saw a sad movie. Also, reviews please?**


End file.
